


Feeling

by LadyWisteria



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7104310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWisteria/pseuds/LadyWisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Compilation of mini shots about Impulse's feelings for Blue. (Not meant to be slash but with the touchy-feely way I write no one  could blame you for reading it that way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> This started out cutesy and happy and then idk what happened ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Jaime!” Bart shrieks. “Put me down!” 

They sail above the treetops, Jaime’s blue-armored hands securely around Bart’s wrists. His feet swing back and forth wildly as he dangles 40 feet above the ground. The only thing keeping him from plummeting to certain major injury or death is Jaime’s strong grip and ability to fly. 

The feeling of rising above the rest of the world, of dancing with death and hospital bills, is exhilarating.

He trusts Jaime.

 

“Jaime?” Bart whispers. 

They’re lying in Jaime’s bedroom; Bart is buried in a nest of blankets on the floor, and Jaime is in the bed next to him. There’s a grunt and then Jaime’s voice, low and reassuring.

“What is it, ese?” 

“I…” Bart quickly debates on whether or not to just tell him, “Nothing.”, and just let him go back to sleep, but he’s suddenly afraid of being alone in the dark again.

“Nightmare.”, he whispers. 

There is silence, then Jaime whispers back, “You wanna' talk about it?”

“I wish.” he thinks, and opens his mouth to tell him that it was about his life in the future. The words die on his tongue as he flashes back to his nightmare just moments ago, and the feeling of an enormous blue-armored hand on his throat. His mouth goes dry and he literally shudders as he recalls the bruises and scars and how it feels to have half the ribs in your body broken all at the same time. Above him, Jaime sits up suddenly and half raises his hand to Bart. 

“Hermano?” he asks hesitantly. “You OK? Do you want to talk?”

Bart wants to cry. “Yes!” he wants to shout. “Yes I do! I’m not OK and I want to talk!” But the words die on the verge of realization, just like the explanations of his dream. 

“No.” he finally whispers. “No, I just don’t want to be alone anymore.” 

Jaime doesn’t answer, and Bart wishes suddenly and desperately that he could take it back. Confessing loneliness is weakness. And what do they do to the weak ones? He starts to hyperventilate, clutching his chest because the memories hurt. 

Then Jaime does answer, and Bart flinches involuntarily at his voice. 

“You’re not alone, ese. I’m right here. I’ll be right here all night, so you don’t have to be scared anymore, OK?”

He flops on his stomach and his hand dangles over the side of the bed, pushes the blankets aside until he finds Bart’s hand. He takes it and squeezes it gently and Bart doesn’t argue; just swallows hard and squeezes back and wishes he could just never let go. He never said he was actually scared, and yet Jaime still understands. 

The calm, controlled sound of Jaime’s voice, his warm, rough hand in Bart’s, and the ever-predictable choice of words like “ese” are endlessly comforting.

He needs Jaime.

 

“Jaime…” Bart whines. 

He clutches a foil bag in his hands. And Jaime wants it, if the way that he’s been circling Bart for the last minute and a half is any indication. Bart finds it laughable, because he could dash away at any moment, but he sticks around because it’s more laughable to let Jaime think he has a chance of reclaiming his precious snack food. 

“I’m warning you, ese…” Jaime threatens, making fists. His eyes are locked firmly on the foil bag. 

“C’mon, Jaime.” Bart coaxes. “Just one bag…”

“There only IS one bag!!” Jaime shrieks back at him. “And YOU took it!”

Bart offers him a cheesy grin, not sure himself whether it’s meant to pacify Jaime or to egg him on even more. “I’m just a little hungry, Jaime. I’ll share with you.” He extends the bag to him. Jaime eyes him suspiciously, then reaches quickly for the bag. Bart snatches it back so fast it blurs. 

“Psych!!”

“I am going to MURDER you, Bart!!” Jaime hollers, and the chase is on. 

The promise of a snack soon to come, the feeling of invincibility and freedom, they all turn his insides fuzzy and warm with the all-consuming feeling of being loved. 

He adores Jaime. 

 

“Jaime.” Bart begs. “Please. Please don’t do this.”

They are in the control room of the Reach command ship the team had infiltrated 2 hours ago in an attempt to rescue a Moded Blue Beetle. Bart is on his knees in the middle of the room, surrounded by the bodies of his fallen comrades. Jaime stands before him, fully armored, and he is leveling a sonic cannon. At. Impulse’s heart. Bart’s heart. There is no laughing now. There are no shrieks of joy and exhilaration. There is no care in Jaime’s flat white eyes and there is no concern in his posture and, Bart will bet, no more warmth in his hand.

“Jaime.” He repeats. “Plea--“ 

And then Jaime steps forward and hits him hard in the face with the sonic cannon and when he falls Jaime catches him by the collar, by the throat, and he lifts him high into the air. Then the nightmares and the memories and the pain all crashing back down on him; and he thrashes about in Blue Beetle’s hand with a desperation he’s never known, but on some level has felt a hundred times before. 

The feeling of failure and the fear and the tangible agony in his chest are suffocating.

He fears Jaime. 

 

“.........” 

Bart does not speak to Jaime anymore. Does not speak of him. There is no Jaime, really; not where Bart can get to him, at least. There is only Blue Beetle and Prisoner #36471. There is no Jaime, and no Bart, and there is no more laughter or bickering over bags of Chicken Whizzies or late night philosophical discussions while camped out on Jaime's bedroom floor. There are no more flights and no more hugs and no more warm, calloused hands in his. There is no more “ese” and there is no more “hermano”; there is only “meat” and “you there” and the soft soothing sound of Jaime's accented voice has been replaced with the sound of cracking whips and dirty snow crunching dully underfoot and slaves crying out for mercy to those who don't know the meaning of the word and those who do and just don't care to give it. And there are no more nightmares, because now the nightmare is reality. Again.

The feeling of hopelessness and exhaustion and despair total, complete misery is overwhelming. 

He hates Jaime.

 

'............' 

There is little sound anymore; at least, little that matters. Every sound is the same as the day before and they are awful. The monotony and the dull hatred and the vague remembrance of better times are all mixed up in his mind and he just is.

He has forgotten Jaime. 

 

...............

There is no sound at all anymore. If there are, Bart can't here. He can't hear much of anything anymore. There is only silence all around him. There is only silence in him. All is peaceful and still. There are no more screams and no whips; no more worries and no more fears and no more wishes for flights and hugs and he's no longer hungry for Chicken Whizzies. He doesn't hurt and he doesn't hope; there's no need for pretending or for every feeling he's ever had for anyone, his team, his family, the few good friends he had made in his own time...

The feelings of love, despair, hunger, hatred, distrust, longing, determination, fear, hope, desperation, regret, resignation...everything is blended and dulled and then dispersed.

There is no Jaime.

And there is no Bart. 


End file.
